Syndicate
by lafemmecasanova
Summary: Set after 2.02, Dean & Sam set out to deal with a demonic spirit causing people to see their greatest fears, driving them to suicide.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing involving Supernatural or the songs I use.

Feedback is greatly appreciated, especially since this is my first dabble in the Supernatural fandom! Basically, all you have to do is disregard 2.03.

* * *

><p><strong>.Today<strong>

"So what do we have, Sammy?"

In times like these, he needed a solid break. They both did. Well, a 'break' wasn't really a good way to put it since that was the last thing he actually wanted. Hunting was probably the only thing that could successfully occupy his mind, clear it up for the sake of keeping his sanity. Tracking down the supernatural had this unprecedented adrenaline that nothing else could even compare to even if it tried. It made him forget his feelings, his thoughts, because it allowed him to put others before himself. While Sam was all for being sappy and emotional, Dean had no intention of laying down his feelings on a silver platter for the world to bitch and moan about.

No, he was going to enjoy life because, he, he finally got his car back.

His lady was all pretty and buffed back out to her original stature – hell, she looked ten times better than the original. Dean put a lot of time and effort scrubbing out the dents and bruises on the Impala, and, as it would, it showed. If there was one thing he could fix, it sure as hell was going to be this car.

Tapping his fingers rhythmically to the beat of the song surrounding the vehicle, Dean Winchester barely noticed his brother's wary looks transmitting to his direction. He was too lost in thought, lost in the reasons of why they really got here, how he had almost dropped the ball and actually had the audacity to smash up his precious Impala on one simple impulse. He wasn't the type to lose control let alone be the weak one; no, he wouldn't be the weak one, and that was why he was almost relieved that Sam had a premonition that drove them straight into the heart of a case.

Granted, Dean was never thrilled to know that his younger brother was having more and more premonitions as the days went on. From the sidelines, they looked like they could be a total bitch, a migraine times a thousand. Not only that, but they were happening more often in his sleep, so he noticed Sam was either reluctant to sleep or just spent most nights awake, thinking, seeing. Then again, he wasn't exactly sleeping the greatest either, but he wasn't the one he was concerned about. After all, he wasn't the one dreaming about dead people and their horrific demises in creepy, spot-on detail. As far as he knew, he wouldn't ever know what it was like to catch a death before it happened-

Well, now that wasn't entire true.

Sam, on the other hand, was watching his brother like a hawk. From what he could see, Dean's mood sky-rocketed since the last time he saw him. The change was practically overnight and more than alarming. He knew the game he had to play whenever Dean's feelings were the subject, and the rule was to butt out unless you wanted a fat lip. Still, it was good to have a case to work on, even if it was at his expense. The premonitions were getting much worse than he was actually allowing Dean to know, but it was for his own good. His worry level went on overdrive whenever it had to do with his visions, and for once, he didn't want Dean to worry. Actually, it was a relief to see his brother happy, but it felt almost a little _too_ good, like the feelings were superficial.

Either way, it wouldn't be smart to question him now, not when he was in the best mood Sam had seen him in weeks. For now, he'd pretend he didn't notice, relax, and take a little breather.

If only his head would let him do that.

Furrowing his brows, Sam propped his elbow against the bottom of the window and analyzed the papers in front of him that he printed out earlier at the local library. Running a frustrated finger back and forth over his forehead, he let out a huff before turning to his left. "Dean."

No answer. The sound of his voice was immediately dominated by Lenny Kravitz crooning over the radio with _'__Bring__it__On__' _and Dean's fingers quickened with the pace of the music, gingerly tapping against the material of the steering wheel as he would with a lover's body.

Shaking his head, Sam hid his smile well as he went back to analyzing the pieces of paper. "We have a Louisiana woman by the name…"

As his brother continuously head banged in his own little world, Sam's jaw clenched, his mind rapidly coming up with ways to snap him back to Earth. Nothing creative popped up, so he cleared his throat and tried to speak above the music while he shuffled the papers. "Could you turn it down? I can't even hear myself think, Dean."

"That's the point, Sam," Dean replied almost instantaneously with a coy smirk on his face. According to Sam's bitch face, his brother didn't find him as cute. Craning his neck to the right, he quirked an eyebrow and turned down the radio just a tad. "What were you saying?"

"I was talking about the case," Sam explained. When he was sure Dean wouldn't interrupt him, he flipped to the last page and drew it out of the pile on his lap. "Louisiana woman by the name of Tess Jonah died two days ago. Cops are saying it's suicide.

"But you know it's not," Dean stated, though it sounded like he was looking for reassurance rather than verbatim.

Shifting uncomfortable, Sam nodded. "Her picture matches the face I saw."

Turning back to the road, Dean rolled down the window and allowed his arm to hang loosely outside the car door. "And you're positive it wasn't just some coincidence that you saw her die?"

"When have my visions not been about us?" Sam reminded. Relaxing, he continued. "She was scared, petrified, like there was some sort of invisible force I couldn't see. When she died, it looked like she was trying to prevent something from happening or something from getting her. I mean, it would have to be something really freaking scary to make you do react that drastically."

"Maybe she just went crazy," his brother suggested nonchalantly.

Sam took a deep breath. "She was fine until that night. People in the neighborhood said that she was happy. Her family suspected nothing suspicious; it was entirely out of the blue that this happened to her. Tess _begged_ for whatever that thing was to leave her alone, and she went ahead, took her husband's gun, put it in her mouth, and pulled the trigger."

"So you're thinking whoever this girl was, she was possessed."

"Most likely."

"Damn." Dean sourly looked on at the scenery of dim lights ahead from the nearby town. "I was really hoping you'd tell me this case was gonna be a breeze, like leprechauns or Bigfoot. Instead we got demons, demons, and more demons."

Switching his focus to the outside world, Sam inwardly wished for the same thing. The term 'demon' was heavy over their heads, and after their father's passing, it only caused more issues. He was barely dealing with his father's death on his own; Dean's reluctance to speak about it only made him feel that much worse because, unlike his older brother, he needed to talk about it, to let his feelings out, and Dean was his only outlet. But Dean only wanted to keep things under wraps like they never happened. This difference caused the biggest strain in their lives, though Sam was done with trying. He decided that if his brother needed to talk, he'd be there. It was really the only thing he could do.

The rest of the ride was in silence until the Impala reached the edge of town. For the first time in a while, the brothers made a decision to leave at night so they could rise and shine a little earlier than usual without the driving bit tagged along with it. As far as they were concerned, they truly needed a good night's rest, especially if they were about to embark on another case that seemed more peculiar than any other thus far.

Making a left turn, Dean's eyes casually glanced over at his brother, his expression changing once he reassured himself that Sam was too busy taking in the sights, or lack thereof. His smirk fell and his eyes softened, if only for that split second, before he cleared his throat and nodded to a crummy motel.

"Home sweet home."

Lazily looking up, Sam went back to his papers before his neck snapped up again, his eyes clouded by confusion. Moving closer to the window, he took a second to go over the papers; his eyes squinted, scrutinizing the black and white photos below him. "Are you sure?"

"How many Starlight Motels does this town have?"

Sam actually checked. "It says only one—"

"So then we're here."

"But it looks nothing like the picture," Sam stated into the paper. Dean was busy taking a right to pull into the parking lot while Sam, apparently not noticing that the car was coming to a stop and that they were going to stay here anyway, fiddled around by making a side-by-side comparison. Gingerly, his fingers held up the paper and he glanced back and forth. From the picture, the motel was rather cheap but nonetheless a little more attractive than the other they had had to spend their time sleeping in. In person? A piece of shit boxed in a building with doors and a few windows. A faded sign with blinking, damaged neon lights spelled out 'VACANCY' in the dark of the night, basically daring any normal soul to even dare coming here. The words underneath the sign were scattered, spelling out 'F EE IN ERN T, MOV ES'.

A disappointed hand thrust out to gesture towards the barren wasteland. "And where's the pool?"

Dean, on the other hand, was already outside of the car observing the surroundings. The silence was like a piercing cry to his ears, and while Sam took his frustration out on the internet's lack of reliability, he was closing his eyes and wincing. Voices were starting to come back, the angel and devil perched on his shoulders telling him what he should and shouldn't do.

Quite frankly, he wasn't in the mood to deal with that kind of bullshit.

Wiping the façade back onto his face, Dean bent down over the door, leaning into the vehicle with a grin. "Just like the pictures of hot chicks that aren't really that hot on Myspace." Patting the interior, he pushed off and started towards the trunk. "C'mon- stop staring, roll up the window, and help me out here."

Sighing, Sam rolled up the papers neatly and ducked out of the Impala. His mouth opened to speak to the back of the car, but when his body turned to face his brother, the familiar brown leather wasn't looming over an open trunk. Instead, he saw something of similar color dart to the driver's side before a large slam resonated through his ears. Instinctively looking to the door for answers, he reared his head back in confusion.

Leaning over the passenger seat was a deviously grinning Winchester reaching over to pop down the little button, locking Sam out from the inside. Immediately lurching forward, he grabbed the handle and shook it a few times before smacking his hand against the window. Dean lazily raised an eyebrow, though said nothing.

"Dean!"

"I gotta go out for a little Sam."

Sam squinted. "What?"

"Get a room Sammy, alright?" he called from inside the car, voice muffled from the barrier between them.

The concern in Sam's voice was overpowering. "But where are you going?"

"To have a little fun." Dean shrugged. "Shouldn't be too long."

"You gotta be kidding me."

The roar of the engine begged to differ.

Ignoring his brother, Dean wrapped his free arm around the back of the seat and shifted his eyes from the back window to the rear view mirror. One glance he stole to make sure Sam was alright; he looked like a lost puppy, holding onto his barrel of papers that crushed his dreams of a pool in the middle of nowhere. He knew that look on his face, and he could feel his throat clamp up. Rolling down the window some, Dean leaned over and looked him in the eye. "Listen, don't worry about me. They got free internet and movies, so have a ball. I'll call you when I'm coming home."

Reluctantly nodding solemnly, Sam took a few steps back to get out of the way as Dean drove in reverse. Shifting back up to drive once he made it out of the spot, he took one last look at his brother – he was expressionless, which made the knot in his stomach increase since he'd rather Sam be pissed at him than have nothing – before driving off down the road, picking up dust clouds in his path as the wheels seared into the ground.

The farther away Sam appeared in his rearview mirror, the more that devilish grin left his face, his eyes softening at the blow. The silence was killing him there, and he knew a couple of places that were never quiet and always gave you the worst hangovers known to mankind. Yeah, he felt like total shit, leaving Sammy there, but if he stayed there any longer, he would've gone absolutely crazy. Well, not like he wasn't already falling off the deep end to begin with. Closing his eyes for a brief moment to level out his emotions, Dean flicked on the radio and turned the volume up to the point where he received an instantaneous headache.

Passing the speed limit by about fifteen, Dean was in the heart of the town in no time. Nothing special, but it was way better than any vacancy sign that blinked off key. If there was one thing that could take his mind off of other crap, then it most certainly was going to be watching pretty women slide all over their silver poles in high heels and shiny underwear. Time – and money – could fly at a strip joint, and by god, he would drink himself dear and poor if he had to.

Nodding to the music as his baby roared into the parking lot, Dean wasted no time shutting off the ignition to jump out of the front seat. Luckily there wasn't a line, which probably meant all the fine performances were probably finished, so the promise of mud-wrestling competitions was shot.

Hey, as long as he got drunk and saw at least two pairs of boobs, he could die again, but this time a happy man.

Stumbling into the joint, Dean searched his pockets for the recent fake ID he had been using on several occasions to get into these sorts of x-rated places. Glancing up at the oh-so-serious bouncer, he put on a cheeky smile when their eyes met.

"Hey there." The bulkier man didn't bother reciprocating. "Having a good night?"

Forcefully handing back the card, his only response was an unenthused grunt of approval. Waving his card between his fingers and in the man's face, Dean nodded in gratitude before passing by into the full throttle of heavy cologne, sweat, and booze. For most people, the combined scents in the air would be nauseating on impact; for him? Paradise.

The women lazily moving about the poles were surrounded by intoxicated men tossing various dollar bills and whistles. Fixing his leather jacket, he observed the room for an empty seat to settle himself in for the night by mentally judging the women up for grabs. On the sign, it had also said Halloween Night, which meant the kinkiest of the kinks. One dressed in a firefighter ensemble obviously didn't want to be there – classic, but too boring for him. Another was trying a little _too_ hard to be sexy in a cheap nurse outfit. She stumbled over her own two feet and looked like a robot trying to dance, but for his own amusement, he almost went over there.

Man, he hated October.

Oh, but when his eyes found the young woman circling a pole in a dark police uniform, his eyebrows perked up at the promising sight. Granted, he had a few outfits of the law stashed in his car for various cases if needed, but the skirt would make any female officer vomit on their own shoes.

Besides, the irony was just too good to pass up.

Scratch that: God bless the month of October.

The woman kept her head down to allow the unnatural curls to cover her face with a brown, wavy curtain, immediately attracting those prone to mystery- or a police uniform or a seat. Her hips swayed to the light breeze of the beginning notes to Creedence Clearwater Revival's 'I Put a Spell on You', and Dean managed to make it over in time before the crooning melody spilled over the loudspeakers. While others hooped and hollered, she seemed to ignore the world around her, her legs carrying her body down, down to the floor in a mesmerizing trance. Her arms traveled down with her, though those hands never left the pole, sparking just the right nerves in his body to unleash his imagination, daring it to picture something _else_.

Oh, he was more than happy that he chose this little circle to sit at.

Waving for a waitress, he simply asked for a beer while never for one second taking his eyes off of the performer above him. He didn't give a damn what kind as long as it was bitter and disgusting. The dancer's face wasn't revealed until she twirled and slid around the pole, revealing smoky makeup and a painted pout to match. If he were drunk, Dean's tongue would already be wagging like the rest of the drunkards here. As one hand took hold of the pole, her left ran from her neck to her chest, down her stomach, and then slid just past the crotch of the dress. The whistle from across the circle woke him up.

That's when he remembered he had a good load of cash on him.

Shuffling around in his pockets while she went around the way to collect various dollar bills being held up, he decided to take out the entire roll of dough he won in a recent poker match he housed in his pocket in order to one-up the other scumbags sitting here with their fancy drinks. As he leaned against the table on his elbow, he held up his arm and waved his wrist around a bit to attract her attention. Between two fingers he held said wad of cash, and it was only a matter of time that the dancer took note of the overlarge tip being flashed her way.

As she sauntered on down to his level, she sat on her hind calves and cocked an eyebrow in his direction. This was the first time that Dean had actually gotten a good look at her face. In the dim light, he could make out her gray eyes heavily guarded with black eye shadow. The rest of her skin was pale, or at least the makeup made her look white as a ghost compared to some of the overly-tanned women here. It was kind of endearing.

"Did you appreciate my dancing that much?" she asked slyly, cocking her head to the side. For a stripper, she seemed rather unimpressed by the chunk of money he was getting ready to throw at her, but all he did was keep his eyes on her, grab his beer, take a sip, and set it back down.

"Something like that," Dean responded in a cocky manner over the music and complaints from the other men that were blaming him for their cock blocks. Waving the money again, Dean allowed his smoldering charm to shine through. "Private dance, you and me, what do you say?"

Hiding a laugh, the woman looked back at the men moaning for her to come back before she caught his eyes again. "You're causing an outcry, you know."

"I can take the heat." Licking his lips, he looked up at her from under his eyebrows. "So what do you say?"

She contemplated. "And who exactly will I be servicing tonight?"

"Winchester." Just to one-up himself, he added a little wink. "Dean Winchester."

Taking a moment to think about the possibilities, the stripper tilted her head to the side and bit her lower lip. Dean attempted his best puppy eye look that he mimicked from poor Sammy; it worked. The woman sighed heavily and completed the transaction by pulling the wad away from his hand with her lithe fingers. "Dean Winchester. It's a cute name."

With the help of the pumps, she slid off the stage and decided to ignore the static of protests coming from the peanut gallery. "You just became public enemy number one around here."

"Something I'm used to," he replied honestly while he took her hand to help her stand up straight. "Call me Dean."

"I plan to." Giving him one last smile, she tugged him away from her little stage to glide through the club, her hips suggestively swaying to the music blaring over the speakers. You damn well better believe he enjoyed the view by trotting behind a couple of steps.

The two disappeared behind a thick curtain sectioning off private booths, and two down to the left lie his ticket to a good night. The woman eased him into the room, and while Dean stripped off his jacket to reveal his typical earth-toned thermal layers, she quickly swished the curtains to a close, giving them ultimate privacy. Plopping himself down onto the pillow-y purple seats, Dean stretched out his arms and grinned, resembling a goofy kid at thirteen. "You know, I didn't quite catch your name."

"Because I didn't tell you it," she replied in a sing-song voice with her back to him.

"Is it something like Baby Spice? Heaven? Exotic like Xanadu?"

"Evie." With the correction, her head turned to look behind her. Smiling, she spun on her heels to face him. "My name's Evie."

"Short for something?"

"Nope."

"Positive?"

"Nope."

"Touchy subject?"

"First time buying out a private dance?"

Taking a sip of his beer, Dean chuckled and took in the sight. "Hardly."

"Well for a vet, you talk an awful lot." The stripper named Evie swayed to the muffled music outside from instinct and walked over to where he was sitting. She took one knee to rest on the booth seat before she hoisted herself to straddle his lap. Planting her hands on his chest, Dean shifted more so they could both be comfortable before he took another swig and smirked.

"I could make you speechless."

Evie laughed. "Oh, I'm sure you could."

When she started to look down, he followed with his face, locking his eyes on hers. "It's an invitation."

The laughter faded to a shaken breath, and she ran a hand through her hair. He was totally serious, which was a first, and for once it was plain in sight that he was a man who could deliver. Softly smiling, she ran her tongue over her lower lip. "And I accept."

The booth was silent for a little while, hers eyes on his, until she felt something race against her hip. Immediately looking down due to her sharp reflexes, she put a hand over his, but it was too late. Dangling a pair of shiny silver handcuffs in her face, Dean smiled, but he wasn't fast enough to jerk his arm back in time to play 'keep away'. Evie reached over like a viper, taking them clean from his hands before laughing. "Really? My handcuffs?"

"You know, I'm surprised at a place like this, they don't make you use the fluffy pink ones you find all the time at the stores for gag gifts."

Dragging her arm back so that he couldn't take them from her, she smirked. "My decision, figured it would make the outfit look more realistic."

"You're actually trying for authenticity?"

"Attracted you my way, didn't it?"

"Touche. Are you kinky?"

Slowly, Evie leaned into him, chest against chest, and sighed. "You're a smooth talker, Dean Winchester," she murmured, hand gliding down his chest. Her eyes dangerously flickered to meet his, gray on green. There was a lot behind his eyes, a lot more than she could give him credit for. Despite his jokes, they were sad, uncharted. For a brief moment, she almost considered stopping, but the metal between her fingers reminded her that she couldn't.

Dean's eyes ducked, busily looking elsewhere without an ounce of shame, like her extreme-o push-up bra peeking through the open zipper of the dress. He didn't notice her expression change, but the way her breathing hitched when his fingers played with the hem of her dress.

"Look at me." Lost in the valley of skin, Dean lazily obeyed and glanced at her face. Evie looked over his features silently, memorizing the lines in his face, the bone structure, the way his jaw clenched and tongue darted over his pouted lips.

It was then she could confirm it was him.

"C'mere." The huskiness of his voice overpowered her thoughts as he pulled the small of her back in for a kiss. Yet before their skin could slide, Evie's arm reeled back and, in one swift, clean motion, her fist collided with his cheek. Clearly this wasn't something he was expecting, so with a grunt, Dean toppled to the side. The woman took the initiative to jump off of him, though the heels alone were hard enough to stand in. She stumbled, but with steady hands, she grabbed the handcuffs that had fallen on the ground and forcefully shoved him down, face first, onto the seat cushions.

Before he could react and fight back, her quick hands managed to take his arm, yank it behind his back, and slam a cuff around a wrist. "Don't move."

"The hell is this?" Heavily breathing, Dean scrunched up his face as it was pressed into the cushion. Fucking perfect. "I like kinky, sweetheart, don't get me wrong, but I'd rather you not break my goddamn arm."

"Shut up. Christ, you talk too much."

The voice was no longer sultry to the ear anymore. It was authoritative, firm, and entirely annoyed by his need to make everything a joke. "Who are you?" he bellowed. "I think if you're gonna act like this is a real arrest, then I have the right to know—"

"This is far from an act, Mr. Winchester." Once the second batch of clicks sounded off, Evie took a deep breath. Keeping her hands firmly planted on his wrists, she pressed down and kept him immobile. "My name is Detective Marcus. I'm with the Louisiana police department. Dean Winchester, you are under arrest for the murder of Rebecca Warren, and that's just the beginning."


End file.
